Loved Like You
by AllaceRose
Summary: "You know it's funny how you can convince yourself that someone you care about is happy...I thought she was happy."


**So I just came up with this idea for a one-shot that may or may not be ontinued. It'll probably be a two-shot with Izzy's POV.**

**So quick background info, Clary is Izzy's younger sister. Clary is narrating, she's 14. Izzy is 17.**

**Yes, I will be continuing my other stories in about three hours.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

You know it's funny how you can convince yourself that someone you care about is happy. You see tears; you imagine they're out of happiness. You hear screams, but your ears translate them into joy. Sobs become giggles, frowns become smiles, and the bitter silence becomes comfortable.

I thought she was happy. She had a boyfriend, they loved each other. She was tall and pretty, she got good grades- up until the month before _it_ happened. She smiled, she told me jokes. She made me happy when _I_ was down. She was a little rude to our parents, but then again so was I.

But as I look back, I remember and I see things differently. I see things as they were.

I could hear her at night, stumbling around the room we had shared. Every once in a while, she'd stop, curse, and then turn around and pace again. "Fuck." Crash. "Goddamn." Something fell over and rolled noisily around the hard wood floor. Her fisted hand kissed her mouth, expecting comfort. Her mouth responded with teeth bared. And when her canines drew grooves of blood on her white knuckles, she'd curse again, shaking her head, black curls wild as she did so. My eyes followed her around the room, silently. And when her half-crazed gaze flickered to me, I snapped my eyes shut, feigning sleep.

Then she'd leave, heels in hand, running towards the light outside our window, the two suns in the night. She was always running.

But this was normal. This happened once a week at least. She'd always come back.

She'd always come back to me. She'd always sneak back in, smelling like alcohol, cursing and stumbling again, but she'd giggle a little afterwards. I think that's how I convinced myself she was okay. She'd come to my bed, pecking me on my forehead before smoothing my hair back, like a mother. Her musky perfume mixed with the tang of sweat and alcohol and smoke filled my nostrils. It was her scent. I expected her scent when she came back. And I always waited.

...

The first time I saw her cry was when her first boyfriend in elementary school broke up with her. The second was three days ago.

She was loud. So loud that I expected my parents to burst through the door. But they didn't.

She was loud enough that I couldn't even pretend I was sleeping.

"What's wrong?" I asked, moving over to her bed like I did when we were younger.

She enveloped me in her arms. She seemed too skinny. She was always skinny, but her arms were like bones now, pale and thin. She rocked me, like she was comforting me and not the other way around.

"Please don't grow up to be like me," she said, her voice husky with tears.

I startled. But she was my role model. Who else was I going to look up to? My greed-filled father? My aloof mother?

"I've made so many mistakes," she said and I twisted to see her. Her eye makeup had smeared down her face, running trails of black. It made her look grotesque.

"Everyone makes mistakes," I say quietly.

She barks out a laugh, a single humorless note, "No. Not everyone. Not you."

I frowned. I make mistakes. I opened my mouth to protest but she cut me off.

"I love you, Clary," she'd said, letting me go.

"I love you too," I replied, going back to my own bed.

But the sobs kept me awake the whole night.

…

Two days ago, she left again. The suns flashed and dimmed. She didn't stumble, didn't curse. She didn't put on perfume. She didn't even dress up.

She didn't run to the car.

She was in a silent calm that terrified me.

...

For the past day, I've been trying to work out why.

Simon, her boyfriend, was a nice guy, at least to her. My friends say he's dangerous. He dropped out of school after junior year a couple years ago, ran with some bad kids. But he kissed her like he loved her. He was the one that took her away most nights, but never for long. She never spent the night at his place. She always came back to me.

He came by when my parents were gone yesterday- which was good because my parents didn't like him. I was on the floor in our room when he came in.

"Hi," he'd said.

"Hi," I replied, not able to figure out why he was talking to me. He always ignored me, saw me as too much of a kid to even notice. And a little part of me wondered if he'd made her upset somehow. The thought made me angry. And hostile.

"I wanted to- talk- to you about- about her," he explained. He didn't say her name. He didn't need to.

"What about?" I asked dully. I watched him swallow hard, hesitant, before his eyes snapped to mine, ablaze with a fire that must've been what attracted my sister.

"Did she- did she ever say anything to you?" he asked, his tone urgent.

"She said a lot of things to me," I replied coolly.

"Did she ever tell you anything about how she was feeling?" his eyes were jumping now, never settling on one place and never on me. His foot tapped, he cracked his knuckles. He was nervous.

"You're her boyfriend. Why don't you know?" my tone was accusatory. He picked up on it.

His eyes snapped to mine suddenly, losing their fire. It was replaced with a reserved cautiousness, "You think I didn't love her."

I stayed silent.

"Listen, I don't know what you think about me, but don't ever get this wrong. I loved her. I loved her so much! I just wanted to take care of her. Please. Please believe me."

"You weren't there with her," my voice shook as I stood up.

"She pushed me away! She told me she needed space. I swear, I never meant to hurt her. You have to believe me."

"You should've followed her."

"She… she said she wanted for us to break up. She said she didn't love me anymore. She said she wanted someone else."

My brows knit together, as I looked at him. He was broken.

I swallowed my pride and hugged him. He tensed in shock but hugged me back.

I stood on my toes, cursing my height as my lips reached for his ear. "She was lying," I told him. It was the truth.

And the truth became a catalyst that unraveled his reserve. The floodgates of his eyes opened and he held me for a long time. His face was buried in my shoulder, staining the shirt I was wearing. It was hers. It smelled like her. It occurred to me, it was the first time I saw a man cry in person.

…

My sister, Isabelle died two days ago. The police said that she was drunk. But her aim was perfect. She hit a tree straight on, at 90 miles per hour. She died with a note in her hand.

_I'm not happy_.

Simple three words put together to form a heartbreaking message.

Why wasn't she happy?

She told me she loved me. So why didn't she stay?

Why wasn't she happy?

I felt like screaming at her, like pleading with her, like begging her to stay, but all my protests would fall on deaf ears.

...

I convinced myself that you were happy. It was because I cared about you. I didn't want to think that I failed you somehow, by letting you become sad. I wanted for you to be happy so badly that I believed you were. You deserved to be. You're perfect. You're so loved that you made a man cry for the loss of you. I want to be like you. I want a man to cry for me. I want to be what you were. You were my best friend. You were the only person I ever trusted fully. So why didn't you trust me enough to tell me the truth? Why didn't you tell me you weren't happy? Why did you leave me?

I love you, Izzy.


End file.
